Fishy Chronicles 67: Lockdown Diaries: Stalkers Ahoy

I lay in bed, unwilling to get up. I had slept fitfully and now my body felt leaden. I waited for more sunlight to seep into my bedroom.

Lying next to me, Anjali’s eyes were closed and her breathing even. I had changed into a t-shirt and jeans in the middle of the night.

Being awake at night is no fun. You think of things you shouldn’t. Of people who aren’t good for you. Of things that twist you. When you lie awake, lucid sane thoughts drift out into the night like vapours through windows with gaps around their edges.

I watched the shadows on the walls. Sometimes when I woke at night they looked like burglars trying to enter through my bedroom window. Sleep would desert me instantly and, after I had screamed senselessly and silently in my mind and my heart beat had steadied and one eye had opened, I would realise that the shadows were the shivering leaves of the tree outside, a night breeze rustling them and the light from the tubelight outside magnifying the leaves shapelessly. It did not help that the watchmen outside banged their sticks on the ground at intervals. To scare ghosts away or stay awake. Who knew.

And then, later, not too often, when I would lay back and take deep breaths, and try to calm my mind and body enough for sleep to claim me, I would remember that my windows had bars on them and a burglar would have to be a human stick insect to squeeze through.

I tiptoed into the sitting room, stopped and backed away quickly. WTF!

I was mesmerised by the sight in front of me.

Genie was naked except for a pair of clinging short white shorts… and was horizontally balanced on his hands, the muscles in his torso, stomach and arms straining – clearly rippled for the onlooker’s benefit. He deserved to be on the Irish Beefcake Calendar. He deserved to be a pin-up! On the cover of the male equivalent of Playboy! The cream-coloured shorts looked as though it was part of his fair skin and thus he looked naked. It was strange but though I had sometimes drooled over this handsome man, I had never pictured Genie without clothes. This was close enough. Have mercy!

I heard a whistle in my ear and nearly jumped a foot. Arms grabbed me tightly and I turned to swear, my heart running like it wanted to escape my throat through my mouth.

“Shhh! He’ll guess we’re staring. It won’t be good if we get caught!” Anjali said in a whisper that I could barely hear and dragged me back behind the hallway curtain. “Why didn’t you tell me! What the eff! Look at him – like a fat scoop of creamy icecream on a short toothpick. Lick fast!”

I glared at Anjali. Any moment now Genie would catch us ogling at him and my game would be up. “Shhh, Anjali. Please stop!”

“What are you up to? I saw you change your clothes in the middle of the night. How could you leave me out of things… shit! He’s coming!”

Indeed. Genie had started to lower his body to the ground and his forehead puckered into a frown. I stayed near the curtain. He folded his body and started doing another asana – a deep-breathing one.

I could feel Anjali press into me. She had worn a pair of jeans and the t-shirt she slept in. Its colour had leeched away long ago and now it was shapeless and grayish white. She had once assured me that we had bought it together and didn’t I remember that day. The t-shirt still fit and the cloth was comfortable and she slept well in it and so it was multipurpose.

Suddenly Genie was untangling himself. He smiled at Fish and his deep gravelly voice asked if they had slept well. I pushed back and felt sudden panic. Anjali moved into the kitchen. I ran into the bedroom. Shit! Genie’s room. I hurried out and debated whether to go into my room… but I saw Genie through a small gap in the curtain, he was moving towards this corridor. I sprinted into the kitchen and looked around. Bugger! No place. Then I saw the gray t-shirt squeezed into the narrow space between the window and the fridge. Genie moved the curtain and I pushed my body into Anjali's and pressed back.

“Ow, you’re suffocating me!”

“Shh!” I shrank back as far as I could and luckily Anjali held her breath and stayed still. Genie had stopped near the kitchen to listen, holding the hallway curtain away from his face with his rolled-up yoga mat sticking out of his armpit. After what seemed like several minutes of his gaze piercing the dim light of early sunrise, he went to his room.

I moved away from Anjali and whispered. “He’s gone to his room. Let’s go back to ours.”

“No. Let’s wait here.”

“What if he comes back to make tea?”

“Good point. Does he?”

“Yes. Has a cup and disappears.”

“You’ve been watching him,” Anjali grinned.

“No. That’s been his habit for years. Nothing changed even after he returned,” I said, feeling defensive but trying to keep my tone neutral and hoping Anjali would believe me.

“Only his body has become more muscled. What do you think he did out there?” Anjali said, referring to the period Genie chose to travel.

“I don’t know. What would build muscle like that? Rock climbing?”

Anjali shrugged. I thought it was intense body building. I couldn’t remember if the Genie that lived with us earlier had worked out. Anjali pushed me away from her and fanned her face with her hands. I moved quickly to my bedroom, with Anjali in tow. Just in time.

                                                                ******

This is a fictional series surrounding the Mumbai-based narrator and her parents’ former man Friday Genie.

                                                                ******

We heard Genie moving about the kitchen, lighting the stove and making tea. I had studied his habits leading up to today and knew that he would pour tea into a flask and then drink his mug of tea and eat two biscuits near the fish tank. He’d sit on the ground and look out of the window at the sunrise that was blocked by the buildings opposite the window.

When the sun rose some more, Genie would move back into the kitchen and then quickly leave home. I had checked the kitchen cupboards, except those on top. I couldn’t because that meant using the ladder and exciting questions from Anjali and Genie. But from the noise, I knew Genie opened those cupboards every morning.

I heard the door close. I moved to the door and felt Anjali follow me. “No need to come with me, Anjali. I’ll be back soon. Just open the door for me.”

“No way, José.”

“Please don’t. I just need to see where Genie’s going!”

“Me too! If you don’t hurry, we’ll lose him!”

Bloody good point! I closed the door with my key, so that Genie didn’t hear us and we tiptoed down the stairs. We watched him from a safe distance and once he was out of the gate, we began to run. We stayed behind the trees on the narrow footpath and every now and then hugged a gate post, some of which were very dirty.

Near the end of our road, near the public garden, Genie bent to hand out small packets to some people sitting on the side of the road. I felt embarrassed at spying on him. I looked at Anjali across the road. She was staring at Genie. We had agreed to split and to run in different directions any time we felt we would be caught. About 20 minutes later, Genie was sitting on his haunches, watching some stray dogs eat. There were a couple of cats rubbing against him.

I turned to go back and slammed into a policeman. “You’re not wearing a mask! It is curfew, you’re supposed to be at home.” He glared at me. I backed away and tripped and fell. He leaned over me and gave me an angry lecture in Marathi. I turned my head to see if Genie had heard the commotion. I could see him get up. I turned to look at Anjali. She ran into the middle of the road and threw a stone at the street lamp next to me.

It hit the wall of a nearby building and exploded into small bits, spraying the policeman, the watchman and me with sharp pebbles and sand. The policeman swore loudly and began to chase after Anjali. She turned and ran into the housing society behind her. It was a big one with much foliage and several buildings. I scrambled to my feet and followed the policeman. I could see Anjali disappear behind a building on the left. To the right, Anjali, to the right! That was where the second exit was.

The policeman ran to the building on the left. I began running after him, frightened of what he might do to her if he caught her. He had his lathi in his hand. I was sure he was breaking the law, or maybe not. It was 6.47am on my watch.

Suddenly Anjali reappeared from behind another building and waved with both hands to get my attention. She pointed to the exit nearest her and waved her arm in a circle, and then made tea-drinking motions. I jabbed the air with my thumb to show affirmation. She was going to run out the other exit and meet me at the chaiwalla. We would avoid Genie as well.

I saw the policeman run out from behind the building on the left and look at all the other buildings bewildered. He looked like he knew his quarry had escaped but still had a hunt on his hands. He saw me and shouted for me to come towards him. I moved backwards towards the gate and heard the policeman swear in rage, but then I heard running footsteps behind me. Before he could see me, I saw him. Genie!

I ran behind a building on my right. I heard two sets of footsteps. I stopped listening and ran as soundlessly as I could, weaving in and out of the buildings through the stilt parking. I knew this place well because I had church friends here and sometimes they liked to chat in the dark in the parking area.

I had no choice but to get to the other exit and try and catch up with Anjali at the chaiwalla. I had thought of waiting out the policeman, but what if he brought reinforcements. But when I thought of it logically what was he going to do? Arrest me for not wearing a mask? Or for violating curfew during lockdown? Or maybe for not obeying an officer of the law. What if he beat me?

I ran until I reached the chaiwalla and fleetingly thought of the Prime Minister, Narendra Modi. Our chaiwalla was clean shaven and skinny in comparison. Like he didn’t eat often.

I saw Anjali, leaning against the teashop's wall, red in the face and gasping for breath. “Thank… God, you’re… safe. I… thought… Motu… would… run… after… you… next!” Anjali said in between deep breaths.

“He… did."

“If… we… are… struggling to… breathe… after… a short… run like… that… we need… more exercise!”

“Ye… ah!” My lungs were on fire and seemingly unwilling to expand in a hurry. I didn’t want Motu to catch me. I’d heard Uncle John say that his neighbour had gone for a morning walk and had turned around hurriedly when he saw a group of policemen rounding up several migrants, clutching their meagre belongings, and a couple of our neighbours. He had watched them do Indian sit-ups, which meant sitting and standing when ordered – all the while holding their earlobes. It seemed an exercise in stripping the soul of dignity. We were punished this way as school children – useless empty vessels with no rights or feelings.

“So sad the chaiwalla isn’t here,” Anjali said looking at the grimy, tin-roofed shanty on the main road that passed off for a tea house. On good days it had a small clientele sitting inside, feeding on bad samosas and oily batata vadas. But the pandemic and its consequent lockdown had likely killed small businesses like these.

Anjali pulled out a tiny packet of Parle-G biscuits and I ate one whole, starving from our recent exercise.

She looked around, smiling. It was rare to see Mumbai at a standstill, when the only things sharing space with you were joyfully noisy birds and hungry-looking strays. We saw people shop for essentials, but they disappeared quickly. She put a biscuit in her mouth and offered me another.

But Anjali’s eyes widened suddenly and the biscuit fell out of her mouth. I turned to look and felt shock course through me.

“I left chai in the flask for you,” Genie said, his brown shoulder-length hair moving gently in the breeze, standing some feet away with his thumbs hooked into his pockets and his eyes hooded. A couple of stray dogs stood at his feet, wagging their tails and smiling at us.

“Oh, we wanted to go for a walk. On an empty stomach. Thought we’d go back and have the tea. But…” I shrugged and gestured at Anjali and the fallen biscuit, “we couldn’t wait that long.”

“I see,” he said and set off briskly towards our building. Anjali and I eyed each other and chewed our biscuits slowly. It was like being in a raging cyclone that barely blew up a skirt.

Maybe there was more to come.

                                                                ****** 

Parle-G biscuits sold just outside Madame Tussauds, London. (Photo: A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 64: Lockdown Diaries: Love Hurts

“Look, dear,” Aunty Glory said when I started clearing away the breakfast dishes. “Genie and Anjali have kissed and made up.”

I dropped a cup of fine China and Uncle John steadied the plates that started clattering in my arms. “Careful, my dear. They’re not beyond a little spying either,” he tilted his chin in the direction of my building. “I fear, darling,” he cooed in Aunty’s direction, “we’ve become lawless and unscrupulous.”

But Aunty hadn’t heard because she was now tottering over to the French windows and waving and blowing kisses at Genie and Anjali. The two were squeezed tightly into my tiny kitchen window looking chummy and the binoculars were dangling from Genie’s hand outside the window. Clearly they had been bonding for a while and watching the world from their vantage point. I wondered why they couldn’t have done the same in the more spacious faux-French windows in the sitting room. They waved and blew kisses in Aunty’s direction.

Aunty was right. Something had made things okay between the beauty and the beauty… or the two beasts – I couldn’t decide which one was the beast and both were beautiful to me. I wondered what had happened to improve things between them. But I was not keen to go back and find out. The lockdown (due to the Covid-19 pandemic) had been making me lethargic and cranky and the brief period I got lurking about outside in the guise of delivering food made me feel lightheaded.

At the kitchen sink, I scrubbed the plates and looked around, wondering what to clean. I had swept and swabbed the Gonsalves home yesterday, and they had been upset but very grateful. “It will give you some exercise, pumping your heart – in a good way,” Anjali had told me a few days ago, when I had returned home sweating like a pig after such a workout. Sweat had poured and I felt it uncomfortably everywhere – like watery pools on my scalp, trickling past my ears, into my eyes, sticking my clothes to my skin and Anjali’s matter of factness annoyed me. However, the chance discovery of a vacuum cleaner in the G home had me doing all sorts of things with it. I even checked YouTube for tips.

I felt a body behind me and the plate I was soaping fell into the sink. I drew a deep breath trying to slow my heart rate. “A-Aunty, you’ve got to stop moving so quietly.”

“Do you remember the lovebirds in wing A (Love Thy Neighbour)? The husband of the nightshiftwali and the wife of the frequent-flyer businessman?”

“Yes. Has the lockdown spelt doom for their love affair?” I joked. Not nice, stop!

“Nightshift seems to suspect something.”

“What do you mean?”

“She looks at his phone when he’s not about.”

“Okay...”

“And I’ve seen her crying.”

I set down slowly the plate and scrubber in the sink and turned to Aunty. “Oh?” I felt helpless, sad feelings buffeting me boisterously. “You think she’s read something on his phone?”

“I’m not sure… I think he’s got a password to get past. She suspects something, but isn’t sure.”

“How can you say?”

“He takes his phone everywhere. The one time I saw him leave his phone behind she got hold of it, and he was back in an instant.”

“Aunty, you’ve got to stop watching and leave them alone.”

“We’ve got to tell her that her husband is having an affair!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Stay out of it, Aunty! Nothing good will come of it.”

“Everything bad is going to fester, the good will get lost in the mess. He needs to be confronted. She needs peace.”

“I don’t think we’ll be any help. Things may sort themselves out. We may worsen things with idle insinuations. Besides, it’s the lockdown. Everyone is on edge.”

“I’d be suspicious of John if he had to take his phone with him everywhere, including the loo.”

“Thank your stars Uncle doesn’t, Aunty. That would be a pain to sanitise. But, you know, these days people take their phones into the loos all the time. They need to watch TV while they poop or read the paper.”

“Is that why you refuse to handle Anjali’s phone?”

“One of them.”

“And you’re okay touching Genie’s?” Aunty peered up into my face.

“Shee! No!” I felt like scrubbing my hands with bleach and dousing myself with Dettol. “Does he really?! How would you know, Aunty?”

“KKKK, kkk, kkkk!” Aunty laughed shrilly. When she gained control of herself, she pinched my cheeks and hugged me. “No, darling, I wouldn’t know. I can’t see into his bedroom or the toilet. I was teasing you. But why would you need to touch Genie’s phone?”

“Yesterday he gave it to me to… to charge the battery,” I said. At this rate, I’d have to watch everyone visiting the loo. Anjali had developed the habit when her publisher gave her a Netflix subscription. She had gone haywire, especially since she didn’t have a TV in the little Himalayan town she was living in. The publisher had threatened to cut the service when he realized why she wasn’t delivering her manuscript… still, to her credit, she righted herself and finished writing the book. Now, she goes on Netflix binges between books. I don’t know how she has the willpower to resist it.

“Ouch!” I glared at Aunty for pinching me. But she was shushing me with a finger to her lips, and pulling my shirt, which slipped out of my jeans. She let go and grabbed my arm and dragged me to her sitting room. Uncle John was in his armchair, unhappily reading a newspaper on his smartphone. “You can read the paper on your laptop too, Uncle.” He looked at me over his reading glasses while the thought settled. He rose slowly, observed us for a few seconds and then shuffled towards his bedroom.

“There’s a problem there, my dear,” Aunty Glory whispered, tilting her head at the family we had been spying on for some years. Initially it was unintentional. Once we understood there was a romantic liaison in progress, we were hooked – even on days when nothing happened.

We knew the lady slept away her mornings, but laboured for her family. She had a mother in law with whom she shelled peas and watched Hindi serials.

We watched the middle-aged lady in the room with her son. The husband was not visible. Maybe bathing. But the boy, probably about 10 years old, was handling his father’s phone. His mother watched from a corner of the room and they spoke. The son looked embarrassed and waved the phone at her. He assumed a fixed expression, probably playing a game, until his mother snatched the phone from his hands.

They began to argue and then, just as suddenly, the argument ended with the mother handing over the phone to the boy and going back to her chair. We watched for about half an hour, but nothing happened. I said goodbye to the Gonsalveses and left.

                                                  ******

This is a fictional series about the Mumbai-based 30-something narrator. While doing errands for her elderly friends, Aunty Glory and the narrator spy on a married couple in the next building and become party to a disturbing set of events.

                                                  ******

I looked at my wristwatch. It was past 7pm, and I had been ringing the bell for some time. I felt a frisson of fear. Were Uncle and Aunty okay? But before I could phone Anjali to get the Gonsalves’s keys, the door was unlatched.

Uncle looked serious and I moved into the dark sitting room. “What’s happening. Why haven’t you switched on the lights?”

He gestured at one end of the French windows. Aunty was watching the family across the courtyard with her binoculars. I had a sudden feeling of dread. I went over to her quickly. She handed me the binoculars and I watched the family whose habits I had come to know quite intimately. I felt a hint of shame that I was wasting my life in this fashion, but my attention was stuck on the young son.

He was hovering over his mother, clearly distressed. She was slumped in her armchair, spent from crying, her face red and blotchy and staring vacantly at a corner. In her hand was a phone. I wondered whose it was.

In a few minutes, it was clear.

The husband came in carrying groceries. His wife ignored him, but the son looked uncertain and upset. He stayed beside his mother. The father said something, but mother and son ignored him. He put the groceries on the floor in a corner of the flat and took off his mask. He put his hands on his hips and said something, but no one looked at him.

And then his body stiffened. He felt his pants pockets and realisation hit him. He went towards them uncertainly and the son moved away. His wife held out his phone. Before he could reach for it she threw it in his face and jumped up and started punching him. He tried to back away, but she rained blows on him. His elderly mother came in and tried to push her daughter in law away, but she backed away in a few minutes of the sustained attack.

Finally, the boy pushed himself between his parents. His father rushed into a bedroom and locked himself in. His wife tried opening the door, but couldn’t. She kicked the door, beat it with her fists and screamed. I hoped the invective was choice and extreme. The bastard. We could see neighbours at their windows, trying to catch what was being said. After trying to ram the door open with her body, the lady gave up and sat in her armchair and rocked herself. She looked at her husband’s phone and kept scrolling. Her frightened mother in law stood watching from the kitchen doorway.

“What do you think?” Aunty whispered in my ear. I dropped the binoculars in fright.

“Uh… I hope she beats the shit out of him!”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I hope sh-she takes him to the police.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Police won’t help. They’ll say it’s a domestic issue, say he behaved like a man, probably ask her to forgive and forget. She’s got a lot to lose. Chances are,” Aunty looked at the woman and shrugged her shoulders, “the poor thing will try and forget it. Her mother in law will counsel her. She’ll be too embarrassed to tell her own family.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I rarely see her relatives. Only his family seems to make an appearance at festivals and other occasions. She’s definitely not a Mumbaikar.”

“How can you tell?”

“She goes away with her son every year for about three weeks. When she comes back, she’s got a lot of luggage and that dining table is usually loaded with bottles of pickles or jams and mangoes and goodies for some days. Like her mother made them for her...”

“… doesn’t mean anything…”

“… I’ve never seen a parent hugging her or her hugging someone.”

Or for that matter, being happy. She seemed to be slaving all the time… for others. In a permanent rush.

“Are you two happy?” Uncle said coldly from behind us.

We whirled around. Uncle was deeply upset. “Are you happy you watched someone’s joy being snuffed out, their life suddenly in shambles? What will you do now… share and dissect and glean a bitter truth?”

He glared at us both and moved slowly around the room, switching on the lights and the TV.

I looked at Aunty. For once she looked embarrassed and defensive. We sat next to each other on a sofa and watched Uncle surf channels. He ignored us, his lips tightly pressed together in strong disapproval.

I wondered what was happening with that poor family in the next building. Did the boy know? He had access to his father’s phone and knew the password. Did he know what his father was doing over the last year or more?

The silence in the G home stretched. After what felt like an eternity, I bade good bye and left.

                                                  ******

Fishy Chronicles 61: Cooking The Goose

Photo credit: A. Peter

Genie got out of his room. We stood transfixed and then we smiled, but he ignored us and walked quickly to the front door and left.

I had tried to offer him breakfast, but hadn’t been able to get the words out. Anjali and I rushed to the door and looked through the peephole.

We saw my voluptuous neighbor Zeba, who was madly in love with Genie, intercept him. Now Genie was smiling and looked like he had never been a sourpuss in his life. Zeba moved closer to him. She was wearing another low-necked caftan – yellow with small blue flowers.

“Seriously, what has Zeba got that we don’t?” Anjali said, trying to get a better view.

“Mountainous boobs and oodles of charm,” I said. It bothered me that a minute ago Genie had been cold to us and here he was cultivating the enemy in the corridor… barely two feet away from my door.

“How does Zeba always know when Genie’s going to step out of the flat?”

“Sixth sense… spying from her peephole.” The same way Anjali and I had spied on our early teen crush Tony Mascarenhas. The strapping stud had been three years older than us in school, and we had watched and stalked him for years, even after he had had a string of girlfriends. Now he was married to a beautiful homemaker, had three pretty children and was a VP at a tech company. Sometimes we pulled out the school photo, that I had flicked from my cousin Rajiv’s school album, and we’d wonder what we saw in the then hairy teenaged Tony. We had moved on, but we still envied Tony his perfect life.

“You don’t say,” Anjali said with a trace of sarcasm. “She’s not even wearing a face mask. Neither is he. What do they think, their love will fob off the virus?”

“Can you do a revenge character in your next book... with Zeba as the villain, please.”

“What will that get you?”

“Salvation.” I pushed Anjali aside to look again. Genie had turned and was moving down the stairs.

“I doubt it. It’s a rare sort who can recognize salvation when it hits. You, my darling, are not that person. Come on, let’s see where he’s going,” Anjali moved quickly to the sitting room windows.

We watched Genie walk out of the building. A woman from the opposite building waved a dishcloth at him, smiling shyly. He nodded her way. A couple of women stepped out from ground floor apartments and chatted with him, he stopped to talk and then looked up. We were caught unawares. But not for long. We waved at him and blew kisses, but he looked away and the women with him glared at us. We continued to send noisy kisses and waved a small table cloth at them.

I looked up and caught Aunty Glory watching us from behind her potted plants and through the haze of cigarette smoke. I waved at her and she slowly raised an arm.

I moved back into the room, embarrassed at being caught trying to bully Genie.

“Are you mad? Do you think anyone can bully Genie… you of all people? But yes, we can piss off a saint if we want to.”

“Aunty Glory hates me bothering Genie… such a soft corner for him,” I muttered, peeping at her through a gap in the curtains. She stubbed out the cigarette and went into her sitting room. 

“Every woman in this housing society has a soft corner for Genie,” Anjali grumbled. She rushed into the bedroom, opened my cupboard and pulled out my father’s binoculars. He’d bought it on a trip abroad and we had spent many happy hours watching flamingoes in Mumbai. 

Anjali trained the pair of binoculars first on Aunty’s flat and then quickly moved out of sight behind the curtains. “Shit! Aunty and Uncle are watching us with binoculars from their sitting room.”

“Well, don’t be shy. Wave and smile.” I grabbed the binoculars and trained them across the courtyard into Aunty’s home. I felt shock jolt me seeing them beaming at me and I waved. Then I turned the binoculars onto the road outside our housing society. Genie was nowhere. I handed Anjali the binoculars.

                                                          ****** 

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator and her household, comprising a former man Friday and pet fish – both back from travelling the world.

                                                          ******
In the last month the spread of the corona virus was termed a pandemic and looking at the way it had decimated populations worldwide the Indian government announced a lockdown. We had been prepared and despite challenges, fresh milk, vegetables and fruits were available. 

I had also begun calling Aunty Glory and Uncle John every day. I needn’t have worried. Peaceful Society’s committee had swung into action and many of the buildingwallas had adopted an elder. I dropped off meals at the Gonsalves's door everyday and chatted for a bit standing at a safe distance.

But we were now stuck at home with Genie, who refused to respond to notes slipped under his door and awesome mutton curry. I had never known Genie to be so angry. And I felt like a real jerk. We heard music come from his room, sometimes some banging, and every now and then he stepped out to grab a book or the broom and dustpan. Often, when we came face to face, he’d flick the untidy living room or bedroom behind us with a disdainful look that screamed “PIG!” and would then turn and disappear into his room.

“How long can he stay cooped up in there?” Anjali asked me several times. His anger was unsettling and unfathomable. She had written him messages, stood at his door and apologized profusely. She stopped when the music’s volume was turned up. Plus, Fish were annoyed with us. They did not talk to me for a day, angry at our nosey behavior (A Step Too Far).

Anjali put the binoculars on the coffee table, pushed it to the side of the room and spread herself on the cool floor. I sighed. “Do you have a deadline, Anjali? Will this lockdown affect it?”

“No. I mean, I do have a deadline, but it isn’t immediate. And I don’t know how I will go for my meetings, or pay the ladies who clean my house.”

“I meant the writing…”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

I dialled Aunty Glory's number. “Yes, my dear,” Uncle John picked up.

“See anything interesting through your binoculars, Uncle?”

“Plenty. Don’t you have enough of Genie at home to continue spying on him when he leaves?”

“Can’t have enough of him.”

“I’m sure. Why did you call, my dear?”

“Do you need any groceries, detergent, etc, etc, etc? I’m making my list.”

“Right. Anyone would be irritated with you for going through their personal belongings,” I froze. “You’ve got to let Genie be for some time.”

“Er, he told you?” I felt mortified.

“I think you’re taking him for granted. He’s not your man Friday anymore, doesn’t work for your parents or anyone. He’s his own person… always was.”

“Er.”

“I’ll write the list. But I’m surprised at you two, my dear. Especially at you.” The phone went dead.

In all my 30-something years, this was the first time Uncle John had scolded me – a kind, non-shouty scolding. My face and ears burned at the idea of Genie confiding about our evil deed to the Gonsalveses. 

But what did I expect, they were good friends.

                                                         ******